Imitation in Death (In Death #17)(16)

"You think?"

"I do. Victor, spoils, all that. Not going to be a sore loser, are you?" he asked with his mouth rubbing hers.

"Who says I lost?" She arched her hips. "Like I said, you're better than the droid." She arched again. "Touch me." "I will. Let's start with this."

His mouth came down on hers, warm and soft, sliding her into the kiss, deepening it until, once again, she, lost her breath.

"It's never quite enough," he whispered, trailing his lips over her face, down her throat. "Never will be."

"There's always more."

So he took more, skimming those lips, scraping his teeth over the swell of her br**sts beneath the loose cotton T-shirt.

Her heart began to thud, anticipation. Her fingers curled tighter against the ones that held her hands prisoner. She didn't try to free herself, not yet. Here, too, was control. His and hers. And trust. Absolute.

When he drew her hands down to her waist, roamed with that busy mouth over her torso, she braced herself for the onslaught of pleasure.'

Her skin was already damp, her muscles taut. He loved the feel of them, hard and strong, under all that smooth skin.'

He loved the lines of her, and the subtle, almost delicate curves.

He released her hands, then drew the shorts down. With a slight frown, he traced a fingertip over her thigh. "You've a bruise here. You're always coming up with bruises."

"Hazard of the job."

She faced worse hazards, they both knew. He lowered his head, touched his lips lightly to the faint discoloration.

Amused, she stroked his hair. "Don't worry, Mom. It doesn't hurt."

The laugh caught in her throat as his mouth got to work.

Her hand fisted in his hair now, and her other hand dug into. the mat as her system shot from rest to revved. A shockwave of heat, a stunning ache that gathered in a fist of pressure, then imploded inside her.

"Teach you to call me mum," he said, and nipped lightly at her thigh while she shuddered.

She got her breath back, whistled it out again. "Mom," she repeated, and made him laugh.

He wrapped his arms around her so they rolled, playfully now. Hands sliding over flesh, tugging off clothes, lips meeting for nibbles or longer tastes.

She felt free and careless, and foolishly in love as she held him against her. Easy enough to laugh even as her body quaked, to rub her cheek against his in innocent affection even as he slid into her.

"Looks like I've pinned you again."

"How long do you think you can keep me down?" "Another challenge, is it?" His breath was backed up in his lungs, but he moved slowly, watching her watch him. With long, smooth, almost lazy strokes he urged her up again until he saw her eyes begin to blur, and the flush deepen in her cheeks. And then heard her low sound, that helpless sound, of pleasure.

"There's always more," he said and captured her lips with his again and let himself fly with her.

Chapter 4

They ate in the dining room at Roarke's suggestion that they have a meal like people who have lives outside their professions. The remark was pointed enough to have Eve checking her intention of grabbing a burger at her desk in her home office. But her initial enjoyment of the crab salad was spoiled - by his reminder that they had plans the following evening.

"Charity dinner dance," he prompted when she stared blankly. "Philadelphia. We need to make an appearance." He sipped his wine and smiled at her. "Not to worry, darling. It won't hurt very much, and we won't have to leave until after seven. If you're running late, you can change on the shuttle."

She poked sulkily at chilled crab. "Did I know about this?"

"You did. And if you ever glanced at your personal calendar, you wouldn't so often be surprised and appalled by these little obligations."

"I'm not appalled." Dinner, dancing. Fancy outfit, fancy people. God. "It's just that if something breaks at work-"

"Understood''

She bit back a sigh because it was true. He understood. She heard enough comments from other cops about spouses or lovers who didn't, or couldn't, or wouldn't, to appreciate it.

And she knew she wasn't nearly as flexible and understanding about the role she had to play as the wife of one of the richest and most influential men on or off planet.

She stabbed more crab and made an effort to pull her marital weight. "It shouldn't be a problem."

"It might actually be fun. Sunday promises to be."

"Sunday?"

"Mmm." He topped off her wine, figuring she'd need it. "The cookout at Dr. Mira's. It's, been a very long time since I attended something I suppose would be termed a kind of family picnic. I hope there's potato salad.."

She picked up her wine, drank deep. "She talked to you. You said yes."

"Of course. We should take a bottle of wine or I wonder if beer's more appropriate." Enjoying himself, he lifted an eyebrow. "What do you think?"

"I can't think. I don't know about this stuff. I've never been to a cookout. I don't understand the ritual. If we're both off on Sunday, we could just stay home, in bed. Have sweaty sex all day."

"Hmm. Sex or potato salad. You've hit me' at two basic levels." Then he laughed at her, and passed her half a roll he'd already buttered. "Eve, it's a simple family gathering. She wants you there because you're important to her. We'll sit around and talk about, I don't know, baseball or some such thing. We'll eat too much and enjoy ourselves. And you'll have the chance to meet her family. Then we'll come home and have sweaty sex."